Dear Hand Part,
I’m not talking to you, Web linking thumb and index finger. Nor you, Palm scarred with lines of life. Not you either, Back-of-Hand where vein worms nudge the age-spotted soil of skin. I mean you—yes, you—Hand Part that curves from the base of pinky to wrist. You, the pillowy edge that compresses when I cup my coffee mug on the desk. I need a break from typingtypingtypingtyping and there you are, adipose tissue of uncomplaining support. You, Hand Part. I’m sorry that after all your years of service, I do not know your name.
It’s fair to complain I can name every finger: Index, Middle, Ring, Pinkie, Thumb. Hard working members of our collective, but no one could claim they are significantly more diligent, sacrificial, dependable than you. For all you are and yet exist unnamed, thank you, Hand Part. And also, I’m sorry.
I noticed you today when I held my mother’s hand. Her fingers were tipped in nails strong enough to have broken an aesthetician’s tools had she ever had the means to visit nail salons. Her veins throbbed as the juiciest of earthworms. Yet today, I held my mother’s hand, and it was a stranger’s. Her Hand Part felt as smooth as the red velvet dress I’d worn to The Nutcracker over white tights that insisted on slumping around my knees. In that dark theater of my twelfth year, my fingers had scrunched up the velvet to pull those misbehaving tights back snug against my crotch. My mother’s hand had squeezed my bothered hand. Her hand was long, elegant, diamond-ringed, peaceful, and her Hand Part cushioned my soul outgrowing a childhood casing as surely as tights revolting against lengthening legs. Sadly, I only noticed my mother’s Hand Part today when I cradled her fingers that now skewed in arthritic directions. Her earthworm veins were flaccid. But her Hand Part—it remained plump, warm, and more velvety than red velvet. Today, when my mother’s mouth failed her, her Hand Part squeezed my Hand Part and soothed my restless soul as I tried to tug my mother back into her proper place in my life.
All of which is to say, finally, I recognized the vital role of a Hand Part.
I want to say thank you. Thank you for the unrecognized times you’ve been stained black by sweeping across penciled school essays. For how you’ve held a violin’s neck snug while my fingers shifted to fifth position. For when you’ve scraped vegetable peelings from the counter. For the fists you’ve squeezed to play rock-paper-scissors and protected my bones (all of which are specifically named in anatomy textbooks) from clattering together. Thank you.
And I’m sorry. I wish I knew your name. You, Hand Part, you were the final, lasting part to touch my mother, and I will carry that caress within bodily memory. This is just to say, I’m sorry. I cannot thank you properly by name.
Love,
Me
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